


An Angel Or A Devil?

by grayspider1974



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lactation Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:46:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7090078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayspider1974/pseuds/grayspider1974
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bjorn gets freaky with a woman half his size, but twice his age.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Angel Or A Devil?

**Author's Note:**

> I think Bjorn's angelic face and graceful hands suit this better than any of the other characters...and besides, why should Rollo be the only one who gets to fornicate with a hot French chick? If Alexander Ludwig showed up on my doorstep with his axe in one hand and his prick in the other, I wouldn't say no either! My French is worse than my Finnish, so I wrote this in English...but I do have some Norman French ancestry. Also, I don't own Vikings, so please don't sue or blood-eagle me. I'm just a horny middle-aged woman who writes these for fun.

The Widow Colvert prayed as Crecy burned. In times of torment, all one really can do is pray. Her infant son slept restlessly in his cradle. It was all she could do not to weep shamelessly, but she would NOT weep, because she knew that reavers and rapists took pleasure in seeing women weep. Nonetheless, she nearly leapt out of her skin when the door that she knew she had locked behind her suddenly swung open.  
"Keep praying," she said to herself "Pray that your child survives this even if you do not." So she stayed on her knees as a lanky, tousle-haired creature in filthy leathers poked his head through the door. The stranger wore eyeliner like a woman of ill repute, and he hissed like an angry cat when he saw the Widow's collection of religious icons and artifacts.  
"Keep praying," she said to herself. The next two were equally ill-favoured and ill-kept, and resembled nothing so much as a pair of feral dogs, but the last was much taller and somewhat younger--perhaps about twenty, so roughly half the Widow's age--and seemed very clean. Someone had evidently taken great pains to clean and oil his leather pants and jacket and weave his hair into that peculiar braid, and his fingernails were trimmed and very clean. His hands were big, but not coarse...more the hands of a musician or a locksmith or some other trade that required both strength and formidable dexterity, rather than the hands of a mere thug.  
One of his jackal-like companions came up to the Widow and mimed having oral sex with her. She did not budge. He backed down when the extremely large young man glared at him. The older man in the slatternly eyeliner giggled, and the giant walked over to the Widow Colvert's dresser and began rifling through her things as though it were perfectly acceptable to rummage through a lady's personal things. He only took a few items...three aniseed balls that went directly into his mouth, the Widow's petty cash, half a bottle of Calvados that she kept among her skivvies and a particularly nice cameo of the Blessed Virgin feeding the infant Christ that her husband had bought her in Italy. He peered quizzically at a rather gaudy statuette of the Archangel Michael defeating Satan that had been given to the Widow by her cousin, and showed it to his ill-favoured friend, who giggled again. There was an unmistakeable resemblance between the tall young man and the Archangel.  
"But the Devil can wear a pleasing form too," thought the Widow. "In fact, I may be looking at him." She was starting to get that dull ache in her lower belly that she used to get when her husband was alive "He is lovely...and I think someone must have sewed him into those pants to get them to fit like that."  
Her son woke up and started to cry. "MERDE!" the widow thought, but the blond giant smiled, walked over to the cradle, and picked up the Widow's son with surprising gentleness and forefinger in the baby's mouth. Then he spoke. His French was not good, but it was intelligible.  
"Il et faim," he said, smiling ever so sweetly.  
He handed the Widow's son to her, and sat down on the bed and started taking off his boots.  
"Floki!" he said, and pointed at the door. The man in the eyeliner tittered, executed a sardonic little bow, and skipped out the door followed by the Fighting Furry Freak Brothers.  
"Il et faim, Madame," the giant said, and sucked his thumb.  
"Amen," said the Widow Colvert, and she stood up. Then she realized exactly what the young man wanted, and sat down on the bed. He was already unlacing his pants.  
"I suppose letting him watch me breastfeed my son is better than being raped by those other savages..." she thought  
"Bon?" the stranger asked.  
"Oui, si bon."  
He grinned angelically and reached for one of the Widow's throw pillows as she unlaced her bodice.  
She breastfed her son. Then she set her son back in his cradle and breastfed the large young man and rubbed his member, which was considerably larger than her husband's had been, as those long fingers with their very clean and nicely trimmed nails found the spot where the ache in the Widow's belly started, and probed it and stroked it until the ache became a pulsating, liquidating mass and her poor defenseless pink velvet throw pillow was ruthlessly violated. Then the young man's welkin-blue eyes rolled back in his head and he pulled away from the Widow's breasts and he thrashed and screamed like an animal dying in terrible pain.  
"My throw pillow is going to be ruined, but he seems quite happy," the Widow thought. "MERDE! He's taking longer to come than I am. Oh, Sweet Jesu..."  
She came again and again and again. Those long, strong, elegant hands were covered in vaginal juices almost to the wrist, and the giant continued tosob and grind away at the Widow's throw pillow until he finally quieted down and started licking juices from his fingers.  
"Merci," he said.  
Then his ugly friend stuck his head through the door.  
"Bjorn?" he asked. Evidently, this was the young man's name.  
"Floki!" the younger man shouted, and flipped him the bird.  
"Bjorn!" the older man said scoldingly.  
Then the door flew open, and a woman roughly the same age as the Widow Colvert stormed in. She had elaborately braided hair and seemed utterly livid with rage. "BJORN!" she shouted, pointing to the door.  
"She must be his mother," thought the Widow "which would explain the breastfeeding fetish. She's clearly not the nurturing type!"  
The young man meekly laced up his pants and put on his boots. He kissed the Widow's son (who had gone back to sleep after his feeding) and slunk out the door.  
His mother shot a Significant Look at the Widow Colvert, and stormed after her son.  
The Widow curled up in bed and sniffed her pink velvet throw pillow, which was now redolent of a young seaman's semen. She smiled, and decided to keep it. She had not felt this good since her husband had died.


End file.
